The Great Famine
by EvanescingSky
Summary: 1847-Famine rages through the Irish countryside. England has abandoned his sister to die. Scotland searches in vain to find her before her seemingly inevitable death. With a third of her population dependant on a failing crop, how will she survive?


Okay, so this is as much a historicle peice as it is a Hetalia peice. I've been studying the Irish Potato Famine again recently and the horrific nature of it really gripped me. I could never portray the millions of people that suffered and died because of this, so I thought to best show it through Ireland herself's experience. It's a short peice, but it's only meant to give a glimpse into what was going on. The bit below, which discribes the famine, is all true. France and Scotland never came to Ireland's aid, I just wanted to show a bit of brother/sister comfort there, and I reckon Scotland would have recruited help to track down his deirfiúr.  
>Thanks for reading. And do comment if you have something to say about either the peice or the famine. I find if a facinating subject.<p>

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><p>The Great Famine<p>

"So many…so many…" Ireland spoke to herself as she stumbled through the street, banging up her bare feet on the sharp stones. Blood oozed from fresh cuts on her toes, dirt working its way in and inflaming them; her preoccupied mind didn't take notice. She was so hungry that little registered in her tormented mind. Her face held a dazed, agonized expression. Her usual quiet grace was gone, replaced by a staggering, bone-thin zombie incapable of finding the willpower to speak the slightest hope of freedom, or even survival. Her once-vivid red hair hung lank and filthy about her shoulders, falling out in clumps. Her dusty, muddy skin clung to her frame like a sheet draped over a rake. Every rib was visible, her cheekbones stood out sharply from her face making her eyes look improbably large. Hunger snatched the curves from her body and the liveliness from her face.

She didn't look a step out of place in the street down which she shuffled. It was dilapidated and neglected, the houses falling to ruin, dead bodies lining the street like sacks of laundry. All around them lay the potatoes. It was if they were taunting the people with their inedibility. Blighted, blackened and turned to soup, there was nothing left for the starving Irish to eat. In the past few days, Ireland had seen her people stoop to tearing up grass from the ground, scraping moss from rocks and even one horrifying instance where she saw a man cook and eat a dead child he'd found in the road.

A whimper escaped her lips-had she possessed the strength, she would have wept. She wrapped her arms around her, forcing herself to continue on. Now she saw-England had only released her back to her homeland because any kind of revolution at this time was laughable! He only saw to torture her by showing her the fate of her people!

Against her exhausted, abused body's will, a tear pushed its way from one of her dull green eyes (they had long ago lost their sparkle). She tripped over a large rock and fell forward, her palms slamming into the ground, rocks embedding themselves into her flesh. She hadn't the strength to cry out-she merely picked herself up, using all of her energy, and kept on her way. She was struggling to make her way to her favorite place on the coast. She saw no foreseeable way that she would survive this-she just wanted to die at the place that had once held so much hope for her.

The cliff to which she dragged herself now was a place where she had watched Selkies with Scotland, dreamed of the future beside The Roman Empire, spoken of alliances with General Padraig…where she had planned the future of her people. It had all been turned into nothing but a joke.

"America is safe," she reminded herself. Yes…that was the important thing, was it not? Her last baby brother was safe, away from England, away from his brutality, his selfishness…America would be a strong nation. He wouldn't fall, as she had. He would thrive. So far gone was she that even this brought her little comfort. After the thought passed, she realized dimly she couldn't remember what America looked like. For a heartbeat she forgot who he was entirely, only that he was someone important to her.

The longer she went without food, the more she forgot. Sometimes at night, she woke calling for The Celtic Tribes, it having escaped her mind that her mother was long dead. Often she grew angry with Scotland for not showing up with food, only to remember Wales was in England. _This hunger is tearing my mind apart, _she thought. This would be England's great revenge-let her people grow fat and happy and let the population boom with the potato-then watch them all starve when their staple crop failed. Over three million people-a third of Ireland's population-was entirely dependent on the potato for food.

"I'm so hungry," she repeated. She'd lost count of how many times she'd said this. Nothing changed, but it was so true she couldn't stop herself from repeating it, like an airheaded parrot.

Turning her gaze from the end of the road for the first time all day, her eyes fell upon a small boy. He looked about five or six and reminded her strongly of Wales as a young nation. He was weakly trying to rouse a woman she took to be his mother, who was slumped against the wall of a house, unmoving. Ireland knew without a second glance she was dead.

"Ma," the boy rasped pathetically. "I'm hungry, Ma. You promised we'd have food. You said God'd save us. Where is he, Ma?" There was no malice nor disbelief in the boy's voice-he was completely genuine. He reached for a Celtic cross about the woman's neck and clasped it in one hand. His lips moved and Ireland found herself whispering along with him.

"Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, at the hour of death. Amen." There was so little conviction left in her voice. God had forgotten her people. Because surely, there was no one wicked enough amongst them to warrent such unconditional suffering? No; God was there, most certainly was there, but heard not the prayers of Ireland.

She was torn-she alternated constantly between this kind of despair and blazing, passionate faith during which she would pray for hours on end, desperate for an end to the agony of her country.

With the speaking of a Hail Mary, one the child had probably spoken a thousand times before, he first perceived the truth of the words-how badly he needed the intervention of the Virgin Mary. He was truly at the hour of death.

Energy-sapping tears began to flow down his cheeks.

"Ma," he sobbed. "Wake up, please Ma! You can't leave me now! I need you! You gotta wake up!" He ceased to shake her, his mind acknowledging the hopelessness even as his heart pleaded for a different outcome. Instead, he draped himself across her brittle, starved body and wept bitterly.

Ireland drifted across the road to towards the boy. She knelt beside him and put a hand on his head.

"Shh…you'll be alright," she whispered. He looked up at her with wide blue eyes-an interesting combination with his chocolate locks. His lower lip was trembling.

"Can you save me Ma?" he asked, his voice cracking. "She can't die like me Da! Then I won't have anyone left!"

"It's too late for your Ma," Ireland told him gently. She put an arm around him. "Don't worry, laddie. She's in a better place now; she's away from all this." She gestured around them. The boy seemed frozen in place. "I lost my Ma too," Ireland said softly. This broke the dam and the boy began to weep again. Without hesitation, Ireland gathered his bony form into her arms and held him tightly. His bones poked sharply into her and she winced. The poor child was barely alive. She could see that he and his family must have been amongst the thousands of tennant farmers evicted from their houses by English landlords. "How can we pay you?" the Irish cried. "We have no food ourselves! The crop is blighted!" The English were deaf to their cries, turning them out regardless and burning down the buildings to prevent return.

"What's your name, lad?" she whispered in his ear.

"Liam," he choked out.

"Shh, Liam. You'll be okay. I'll protect you," she murmured. "I'll find a way to get you food." She was blatantly lying, but she saw no other way to comfort the lad. What comfort is the truth? He settled on her lap and they remained that way for a long while. Ireland would have sung to him, if she could find it in her. Instead, she mumbled the words to "The River is Wide" in a broken melody, a pitiful attempt at a song. It was all she could manage.

This was how France and Scotland found her, hours later. France, dragged along on this mission by Scotland, was so horrified by what he saw that it took all his courage to not turn tail and run home as fast as he was able. There was no one else for whom he would persevere throughout this utterly bleak and hopeless countryside. With each step, his revulsion at the conditions the Irish had been reduced to grew and he found himself nauseated.

But Scotland was determined to find his sister. His face was hard and stubborn; France knew just by the set of his jaw Scotland wouldn't give up until he found her or was pulled back to England by his toes. Or died.

It was actually France who spotted her first. Scotland had his eyes peeled for her crown of bright red hair, but it had been so dulled by lack of nutrition his eyes passed right over her.

France took a closer look at her, something in her hunched posture catching his eye. He nudged Scotland with an elbow. "Scotty…look over there," he said quietly.

Scotland rushed to his sister's side immediately, ashamed he hadn't recognized her instantly.

"Maerad?"

She didn't reply. She was doubled over Liam's scrawny form, her forehead pressed against the top of his head. Scotland took the boy's wrist and a pained look crossed his face.

"I couldn't save him," she said. Her voice sounded like she was a million miles away in her head-dazed, befuddled, bordering on insane. "I couldn't save him. What's wrong? Why couldn't I? He won't wake…I promised not to let him sleep…he must wake!"

"Maerad…the lad's dead," he said, as gentle as France had ever heard him.

"No." The word was torn from the darkest part of her, wrenched out with the last of her strength.

"Mae…" Scotland hadn't used her nickname in so long she'd almost forgotten it. In fact, he almost never used it, unless she was really in danger of losing it. It didn't even register with her.

"No!" From somewhere inside she dredged up enough energy to raise her voice to a normal speaking level. Lifting her head, Scotland saw for the first time how badly the blight had ravaged her. His eyes widened and his hand curled into a fist. "He can't be!" she continued, a strong tremor in her voice. "He can't be! I should be able to save him." Carefully, she straightened up, reveling little Liam's face. He looked so peaceful he might have been sleeping, save for the devastating effect the starvation had had on his small body.

"You can't do everything," Scotland said.

Strangely, Ireland ignored him. Instead, her foggy eyes fixed on France.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why am I so useless? Why can't I save my people? Why must I watch them starve in front of my eyes?" Tears welled in her eyes. Scotland, stung by her deference to France, put a hand on her cheek.

"Because that's what he does, Mae. It's not your fault-he just can't stand to see you strong," he spoke quietly, as if afraid to shatter her with words too loud.

"Look at them, Ian." At last she addressed him. Her voice was so tremulous it was a wonder she could speak at all. No one but Scotland, Wales and perhaps England (though he'd never admit it) would be able to make out her words beneath the thick blanket of her accent and the quaking of her voice. "Look what's been done to them. How can he let us starve this way? They haven't done anything wrong!"

Scotland lowered his eyes, having no answer to give her. "Too often the good suffer and burn, while the worst of humanity thrives on their pain," he said at last.

Their eyes met and together they set Liam's body aside, allowing Maerad to collapse into her brother's arms, sobbing.

"Oh, Scotland! Ian! It's too much!" The sobs wracked her nutrient-starved body, stealing valuable strength from her. Pain stabbed through her head, and few tears managed to gain enough liquid to fall. Scotland cradled her against his chest as she had held Liam moments before. He stroked her hair and back, murmuring to her in the long-forgotten language they had once shared across open plains and rocky beaches.

"Beidh sé ceart go leor, deirfiúr. Tá tú láidir, ní bheidh tú ag crith. Tá sé fós a bhainistiú a dhéanann tú sa? Uimh Beidh tú i réim, beidh tú saor in aisce. Ach ní mór duit a shealbhú ar."

France stood by awkwardly, unsure of what to do. He was sickened at the sight of Ireland-an image of Italy or Spain tortured so entered his mind and refused to release its poisonous tendrils. He was rooted to the spot, imagining Scotland's terrible pain. He was too far under England's thrall to rescue even his own dear sister.

Amidst her tears, she repeated several phrases, because to put words to her horrific experiences, grief and suffering was a Sisyphean task. There was no way to describe it, to speak her heart. But she didn't need to. With the intuition that only a well-tuned sibling can have, Scotland understood exactly what she was going through.

They remained so for a long while. By and by, Ireland's tears subsided, more due to lack of energy on her part than any lessening of her sorrows.

"You must go, brother," she said dully. "England will find you. He will punish you."

"I care not," Ian announced.

"I care," Ireland replied. She looked at him, her expression so full of emotion it was impossible to distinguish one from another. "Please, brother." She clasped one of his large hands between her two small ones. "Take care. I shan't rest unless I know you and Wales and America are safe."

At last Scotland was forced to recognize the truth of her words. He rose to his feet, looking so shamed.

"You know I would save you if I could," he whispered. His voice was full of pain and disgust with himself. "I would die for you, deirfiúr*."

"And I for you," she responded, her expression equally agonized. "Should trouble come on you, deartháir**, I would doubt my ability to help you. Such are the times in which we live. Blame lies nowhere but with our dear little brother."

Scotland nodded, a dark cloud of anger settling itself on his face. Ireland gave a weak nod to France.

"Take care of him, France." She kept her voice low, as a secret between the two of them. France tore his eyes off of her rapidly weakening form and led Scotland from the village.

As soon as they were gone from her view, Ireland collapsed on her side. There would be no making it to the cliff. That meeting had taken the last of the effort her overworked, underfed body was capable of producing. But it had been worth it, to see her deartháir one last time. Her great wide eyes fluttered shut and she was still.

*Sister

**Brother

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><p>The Irish Potato Famine (The Great Famine) lasted from 1845-1852. 1 million Irish starved to death and another million emigrated, dropping the population by 25%. Leading up to the famine, Ireland was described by a contemporary historian as "without exception their findings prophesied disaster; Ireland was on the verge of starvation, her population rapidly increasing, three-quarters of her laborers unemployed, housing conditions appalling and the standard of living unbelievably low." Laws by the English, which severely restricted Irish rights left them with little choice but to become tenant farmers-and therefore at least partially dependent on the potato. The Earl of Devon described such farms: February 1845 reported that "It would be impossible adequately to describe the privations which they [Irish laborer and his family] habitually and silently endure . . . in many districts their only food is the potato, their only beverage water . . . their cabins are seldom a protection against the weather... a bed or a blanket is a rare luxury . . . and nearly in all their pig and a manure heap constitute their only property."<p>

Because of these extreme poverty levels, the potato was an ideal crop for the gentry. It was cheap and grew well in the poor soil that had been overworked by cows in order to feed the English appetite for beef.

Approaching the famine, after the first blight had struck, the Irish pleaded with Parliament to send alms, aid, anything to save their people. Little to no help was provided to the so-called "UK" member.

A contemporary writer at the time said this of the charity attempts: He affirmed that in Ireland no one ever asked alms or favors of any kind from England or any other nation, but that it was England herself that begged for Ireland. He suggested that it was England that "sent 'round the hat over all the globe, asking a penny for the love of God to relieve the poor Irish," and constituting herself the agent of all that charity, took all the profit of it."

Interestingly enough, in 1847, midway through the famine, a group of Native American Choctaws collected $710 and sent it to help starving Irish men, women and children.

During this time, English landowners continued to evict Irish farmers who couldn't meet sales quotas. In 1847, mass evictions began. It was only in 1849 that anyone began to keep track of how many were cast out of their homes. By the end of the famine, a total of almost 250,000 evictions had been recorded. After evicting their residents, many landlords would burn down the residences, to prevent any return by poverty-stricken Irish squatters.

The famine is still a controversial event in Irish history. Debate and discussion on the British government's response to the failure of the potato crop in Ireland and the subsequent large-scale starvation, and whether or not this constituted genocide, remains a historically and politically-charged issue.


End file.
